


if you change your mind, i'm the first in line.

by alastriona



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Fuck Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alastriona/pseuds/alastriona
Summary: “Where’d you get this shit?”“It’s one of my mom’s cassettes,” Richie answers, pushing the tiny rectangle into the player and waiting a bit before pressing the play button.“We’re gonna listen to your mom’s music?”“It’s ABBA. Come on, Eds.”





	if you change your mind, i'm the first in line.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah there's a lot of abba in here,,, i love them and this was just an excuse for me to use them to cry over reddie,,,  
anyway this idea came from the thought of reddie lying on richie's bedroom floor blasting abba to cope and it uhh became a monster <3

**Trashmouth’s Bedroom – 1991-ish.**

“Where’d you get this shit?”

“It’s one of my mom’s cassettes,” Richie answers, pushing the tiny rectangle into the player and waiting a bit before pressing the play button.

“We’re gonna listen to your mom’s music?”

“It’s ABBA. Come on, Eds.”

Eddie only shrugs as a response and settles down on Richie’s bedroom floor, back pressed against the carpet. Itchy and forest green, Eddie thinks he might get an infection from it scratching his skin. He doesn’t make any complaints about it.

Richie settles beside him once the music is blasting from the cassette player sitting on his desk, borrowed from his older sister. Well, borrowed is a loose term, but that doesn’t really matter, not when the two of them are lying on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, eyes up at the ceiling. Stars are still scattered there from Richie’s science days. In elementary school, he thought he was going to be a scientist. Now, at sixteen, he doesn’t really know what he wants to do. Eddie thinks he can do whatever he wants, Richie’s capable of anything and everything if he put his mind to it, although Eddie would never admit that to his face.

The first track plays on.

** _chiquitita, tell me the truth, i’m a shoulder you can cry on. your best friend, i’m the one you must rely on. you were always sure of yourself now i see you’ve broken a feather. i hope we can patch it up together. chiquitita, you and i know how the heartaches come and they go. and the scars they’re leaving. you’ll be dancing once again, and the pain will end. you will have no time for grieving._ **

** **

He thinks of the house, that stupid fucking house from two years ago that he’s tried his hardest to forget but can’t erase from his mind. Crusted, paint-chipped walls and vines growing out of floors like arms attempting to pull crisp bodies out of the depths of hell. A sewer, muddy and drenched with blood of children, molding arms, legs, heads, everything, strewn throughout the waters. Eddie nearly gags at the thought, but forces it quickly back down his throat. This is supposed to be a peaceful thing, something he and Richie decided to do after realizing that shit was hard, and that they needed to cope. They’re only sixteen and their only means of therapy is lying flat on Richie’s floor while blasting music from stolen cassettes on a stolen player.

It’s something. It works for them.

Eddie’s eyes flutter to a close, shuts the world around him out and breathes slowly, chest rising and falling at his own pace. It’s something Eddie taught himself after finding out his inhaler is just air in a fucking can that provided him with something he already had; oxygen is all around him, might as well make use of it instead of paying for it in a little container. He could, he _can_, breathe on his own. So, he does. He breathes and pulls himself out of the memories attempting to imprison him again, fingernails digging out of his mind until the world is nothing more than Richie’s bedroom. Eddie focuses on the gentle brush of Richie’s shoulder against his and thinks about the feel of the cotton t-shirt, soft against his bare arm. One of Richie’s old striped tees. So distinctly his. He isn’t in that house right now, he’s not in danger. He’s with his best friend, **_best friend_**, and they’re okay. Well, maybe not okay, but they’re safe.

“You alright?” Richie whispers.

Eddie nods, eyes still shut. “I’m alright.”

“Okay.”

The next track starts.

** _so, lovers live a little longer, baby. you and me, we got a chance to live twice. lovers live a little longer, ain’t that nice. lovers live a little longer, baby. what a feeling when i hold you tight. lovers live a little longer._ **

** **

A bone cracks in the back of Eddie’s head and suddenly it feels like the plaster cast is encircling his arm again. _Lover_ written so obnoxiously on the front. Eddie will never acknowledge the letter that lied beneath the sharpie red. He simply won’t. Richie had set his arm back into place that day, and it hurt like hell, but the pain pulsing in his bones couldn’t compare to the worry in Richie’s eyes. That look as thick as the plaster of Eddie’s cast, forever pasted behind his eyelids. Richie looked as though Eddie had been killed. He hadn’t, of course, just a stupid fucking broken arm, not a clown’s claw piercing through the heart. He’d been completely fine. They’d lived through it all, miraculously.

God doesn’t exist, despite all Sonia tells Eddie. He’s seen the bottom floor of hell and knows that no god, or any deity, would ever let shit like that happen to kids. No amount of being forced to a backwoods Baptist church could force him to believe in that shit. But even still, getting through that entire ordeal felt along the lines of the godly supernatural. They’d been given a chance to live twice despite the immense power that stupid fucking clown had. They had killed it with their bare fists and roaring hearts. Living a bit longer was made possible for them, by some means, either of their own abilities or that of another being. Eddie would never know. But they were alive. That he was sure of.

Eddie opens his eyes and takes a deep breath.

The tape scratches a bit before pushing on.

** _look into his angel eyes. one look and you’re hypnotized. he’ll take your heart and you must pay the price. look into his angel eyes. you’ll think you’re in paradise. and one day you’ll find out he wears a disguise. don’t look too deep into those angel eyes._ **

** **

He checks and makes sure Richie isn’t paying him any attention, he’d closed his own eyes by that point, before glancing at him longer than he should. Something twists in his gut, like two hands grabbing his organs and winding them up into a spiral. It makes him feel sick, vomit could rip from his throat at any second, but it doesn’t.

Eddie doesn’t really get why he likes looking at Richie so much. A voice somewhere within him echoes that he shouldn’t do this; that it’s wrong, that best friends don’t share lingering looks in silence, especially not in the secrecy of their bedrooms. Eddie can’t bring himself to stop, nonetheless. A lot of people look at Richie, well, a lot of _girls_ look at Richie, because they should, because that’s how relationships spark and soon Eddie knew his best friend would be running off with some senior girl, holding hands and sneaking out of gym class. Sadness bubbles up in the bottom of his heart at the thought. Maybe he shouldn’t think about that.

Richie really does have angel eyes, though, and Eddie hates that ABBA’s called them to attention like this. He’s never been able to tell whether they’re more blue or green, rushing rivers or fruitful forest. He can’t tell the difference. Richie’s eyes have always pulled him in regardless. Eddie thinks of the way they brighten when he tells a stupid joke, Christmas lights twinkling on the tree on Christmas eve, or the way they soften like a summer sunset, setting down on him when they’re sitting on Eddie’s bed for the hour Sonia has allowed Richie over.

Eddie thinks he might be in love with Richie’s eyes, or maybe Richie’s jokes, or maybe Richie in general, but he forgets the thought the second it flows into his head. It’s instantly shoved back, far far far far far far back until it doesn’t even exist.

It’s not like he can admit something like this so easily, put his heart out on his shoulder and wear it around as if it's an accessory. He shouldn’t be looking at his best friend like this, heart trapped in the glassiness of his pupils. So, Eddie keeps his heart locked up within him. It’s better this way anyway. One day, they won’t even be best friends anymore. They’ll graduate and move and get married and forget all about each other. No need in ruining their friendship now by unleashing secrets when it’s bound to end in the upcoming years.

Eddie won’t do that to them.

He’ll remain silent until he forgets.

The next song pumps out through the speakers, vocals floating in the air around them.

** _if you change your mind, i'm the first in line. honey, i'm still free, take a chance on me. if you need me, let me know, gonna be around. if you've got no place to go when you're feeling down. if you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown, honey, i'm still free, take a chance on me. gonna do my very best and it ain't no lie. if you put me to the test, if you let me try. take a chance on me_ **

** **

Eddie snaps his head to the right when he sees Richie’s eyes flitter open, heart thumping in his chest that he’d be caught. He wasn’t, luckily enough.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asks when Richie starts to push himself up off the floor.

They still had at least thirty minutes left of lying in silence. This broke the rules. Richie only grins at him in response and Eddie’s stomach drops. That smile never means anything good.

“We can go _dancing_,” Richie sings once on his feet and extends a hand to Eddie, shit-eating grin still wide on his lips.

“No,” Eddie shakes his head furiously. “_No, no, no, no, no– _I don’t dance, Richie, you know this–“

“We can go walking,” he continues, stretching his arm out further towards Eddie. “As long as we’re together.”

“Richie, seriously, I don’t wanna–“

Eddie’s hand is grabbed, and he’s pulled up off the floor before he can finish the sentence. And he’s holding Richie’s hand.

“Listen to some music, maybe just talking, get to know you better!”

Even though he’s being playful, nothing serious in his tone, Richie doesn’t sound all that bad. His voice a tad deeper than usual and Eddie thinks he looks like a lovestruck fool listening to it.

“Cause you know I’ve got so much that I wanna do–“

He’s yelling now.

“Your mom’s gonna get pissed, Rich.”

“When I dream I’m alone with you, it’s magic-“

“You’re gonna bust my fucking eardrums man!”

Richie grabs his other hand, lyrics still pouring loudly from his lips and starts to spin them. The shit-eating grin is now full of pure happiness and Eddie loses the power to be irritated by him. A spin or two later, Eddie finds himself grinning too.

“Let me tell you now, my love is strong enough to last when things are rough, it’s magic! You say that I waste my time, but I can’t get you off my mind! No, I can’t get you off my mind, ‘cause I love you so!”

Their harmonies aren’t melting together like ABBA’s but they’re mixing in their own way. That’s how things always are for Eddie and Richie. They never really mix with the rest of the world, but find solace in their own mold, their own rhythms. Dancing in circles like a couple of weirdos, yelling the lyrics to a fucking ABBA song isn’t something other boys their age do on a Friday night, but it’s what they’re doing and they’re _happy._

Eddie’s chest tightens up at all the movement, twirling hand in hand around Richie’s room, trying to not trip over lose books or slip on stray paper, which means he has to stop singing. Richie doesn’t stop, though. He keeps on belting his heart out to no end, as if his room was the world alone, there aren’t any parents, or sisters, or neighbors, or strangers roaming the street to hear him. Only Eddie. A part of Eddie wishes that true, seeing the glee splayed across his best friend’s face.

“I’m the _first_ in line! Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me!”

The simple line lingers in the space between them, only a couple of inches, elbows tucked at their sides and palms sweaty against one another. Eddie wonders what might happen when they grow up, if they fall distant in the future, but find each other again by some certain chance, fate, maybe. There might be a time where they’re free to do whatever, where the harsh words of Derry sewers and paved roads of hatred don’t haunt them. It’s possible. Eddie knows it is. Eddie just doesn’t think that it’ll be possible for them. Richie will never love him, not in the same way Eddie does, and Eddie knows that he has to accept that sooner or later. Richie isn’t like _that_ and probably never will be. Even still, Eddie’s heart thumps deep in his chest with childish hope that these pointless lyrics mean more to Richie than to fill the air of a falsified therapy session, that they’re what he really feels deep down inside, hidden from Eddie’s knowing.

Lyrics don’t mean anything, though, especially not these, and it’s a harsh moment of understanding that Eddie faces when he and Richie have fallen against Richie’s bed, side by side, hand in hand.

“Fuck, I’m out of breath,” Richie says, chest heaving. He’s still smiling. “Must be like you now, huh, Eds? I need an inhaler.”

Eddie pulls his hand out of Richie’s and smacks his shoulder. “Shut up.”

A laugh is Richie’s response, head back against the dark blue comforter, dark brown hair splayed out on it. Eddie really fucking wishes he could get himself to stop looking at Richie like he’s the only person on the planet, because he’s not.

“Seriously though, it’s hard to fucking breathe,” Richie says once no longer gasping for air.

“I bet. You yelled and danced for an entire song and then decided to lay down. If you wanted to get your breath back, you would’ve been standing with your hands above your head.”

“I guess, but we were holding hands and you fell onto the bed first. Also, you stopped singing halfway through.”

“I have _asthma, _you dick_–_ “

“You have a bullshit fake diagnosis–“

“Oh, shut up Richie, seriously–“

“I’ve told you for years that you never really had asthma, you just get overwhelmed–“

“It’s the same fucking thing!”

“It’s not, asthma is where your lungs have an issue taking in and pushing out air.”

“Well, my lungs have fucking issues doing that!”

“Maybe it’s because you’re tiny.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re tiny,” Eddie mocks, face scrunching up in irritation. “Or maybe you’re just a fucking idiot!”

Richie laughs again and Eddie can see the joy of getting him riled up painted across his reddened cheeks. Sometimes, Eddie thinks Richie only exists to irritate him. That’s another reason why he’ll never tell anyone, especially not Richie, how he really feels. Because Richie is an annoying asshole that might make a joke out of the whole thing.

“Did I ever tell you ‘I told you so’? When you found out about your medication being fake?” he asks.

“Yes, you did, like fifty fucking times–“

“Cool. Anyway, I told you so.”

Eddie slaps his shoulder again before falling silent. He should’ve been able to tell that everything back then was fake, that his mother was keeping him on a tight leash woven with steel, tight against his throat and laced in the placebos she fed him for years. Richie had been the only one to tell him that they were fake, that the pills felt empty and his sister’s pills held weight. Eddie’s were nothing. He didn’t believe Richie back then because he had no reason to. What the fuck did Richie know about medication? Surely not as much as Mama did. But the whole fucking thing got flipped on its head and Richie ended up being right. Eddie hated admitting it to his face.

He still takes the pills even now, just to keep his mother from breathing down his neck about it, and even though he knows it’s pointless, a part of it feels routine, that taking the medication will keep structure to his life and keep it from falling apart again like it had two years ago. Fake or not, the pills help.

“I should probably get going soon,” Eddie whispers after a handful of seconds. He checks his watch and a blinking 7:43 glares back at him. Mommy wants him home by eight. It’s a good bike ride from Richie’s house to his own.

“Yeah,” Richie responds.

Eddie pushes himself up by his elbows and gets off the bed. His jacket is thrown over Richie’s desk chair. He moves over to grab it and pulls it over his shoulders. It reeks of his house. He doesn’t want to go home. Eddie would rather stay here, in the safety and comfort of the Tozier home, but his mother wouldn’t have any of that; not even a call from Mrs. Tozier could convince his mom to let him spend the night. He and Richie have tried too many times to get her to agree, have gone through a myriad of plans to persuade her into letting Eddie stay over, all to no avail. Sonia Kaspbrak is a stone wall that neither Eddie nor Richie have the power to break down, not with their fists or minds. She’s a definite stop in their friendship, like the buoys out in the lakes that kept kids from swimming out to far, always preventing them from even the slightest of things. She’d call it danger. Eddie wishes his life was like the quarry, open and free and out of everyone’s way. Nobody watching, nobody trying to protect him or over-worry about him. Sure, the water out there is pretty fucking gross, but it feels more like home than the Kaspbrak residence ever would.

“I’ll see you at school Monday, then,” Eddie says, looking over at Richie from his bedroom door. He was still laying down, eyes turned up at the ceiling, hiding their expression from Eddie.

“Sadly.”

Eddie’s lips turn into a slight frown. He knows Richie doesn’t like going to school despite his perfect grades; Eddie just wishes that he at least enjoyed it a little bit, since they share most of the same classes. He opens the door and steps out, leaning back just a tad before completely heading out.

“Bye, Rich.”

“Bye, Eds.”

Eddie leaves Richie’s house and bikes home in silence. He doesn’t think about the setting sun and how two summers ago he would’ve been too scared to bike at night alone. He thinks about Richie instead, how his hands had been heavy in his own and how it felt like Eddie had held the weight of his world for a little over two minutes. He wants to hold Richie’s hands again, but he won’t. He can’t.

He makes it to his front door at 7:59. Thank fuck there won’t be a lecture for him to face tonight. Eddie showers in silence, scrubbing his body over and over again beneath the scalding water. It turns his arms bright red, from both the water and the old washcloth.

Eddie goes to bed a little past midnight, still unable to let go of the feeling of Richie’s hand in his own. No amount of soap and rough scrubbing can wash the feeling away.

_Take A Chance on Me_ stays on repeat in Eddie’s head for the entire night, weekend, and next week at school.

** 25 years pass.**

  
Eddie Kaspbrak gets married to someone far too similar to his late mother. The leash remains tied tight around his neck, pressing into his skin, leaving it red and raw. He finds a stable job in security checks, making sure buildings are up to regulation and safe. It’s fitting for him.

Richie Tozier remains single despite random flings here and there that nobody knows about. He becomes a comedian, a pretty popular one at that. Eddie catches a random guy’s show on Comedy Central one night after work. Myra yells at him the second he walks through the door for coming back so late and storms off to bed. So, he settles onto the living room couch with a microwaved dinner and turns on the television. For some reason unknown to him, the whole show feels fake. The bright lights, the hint of a smile on the guy’s face. His shirt isn’t even fucking ironed and his jokes are disgusting, horrible. _This guy’s shit_, Eddie decides before turning the television off and heading to bed.

They don’t remember each other at all after graduation until they’re called back home under unfortunate circumstances.

It’s happening all over again.

Perhaps the lovers were given a second chance to live, but there wouldn’t be a third.

** _and here we go again, we know the start, we know the end. masters of the scene. we’ve done it all before and now we’re back again to get some more. you know what i mean. voulez-vous, take it now or leave it. now it’s all we get. nothing promised, no regrets. voulez-vous, ain’t no big decision, you know what to do. la question c’est voulez-vouz._ **

**Sewers Beneath the Neibolt House – 2016**

Eddie’s going to die. He’s going to fucking die a sad man by the grotesque hands, well claws or whatever the fuck that thing has, of a clown. Memories that had flooded back to him in the short time he’d been back in Derry were caught up in his throat, sewer sludge thick and choking him. Feelings he forgot existed have been circling his head since he stepped foot into the Chinese restaurant, since he saw Richie again, and now he’s going to die with them still locked up in his heart. He’s fucking pathetic.

Well, maybe not all _that_ pathetic considering the fact that he’s going to die because he saved Richie’s life. That stupid fucker got caught in the deadlights like the idiot he was, freaked Eddie the fuck out and left him with no other choice than to throw the broken gate spear down It’s throat. _Maybe it was worth it_, Eddie thinks.

Yeah.

It was.

Because Richie is alive and even though life will be fading out, leaving his soul soon, Richie will be okay. Richie will live on.

From across the cave, Eddie hears the others hurling insults at the clown, and wishes he could be over there with them, taking part in destroying it, but his hands are covering his open wound, hot blood seeping through his shirt and running over his fingers. Richie’s at his side, hands pressed to his torso, too, in an attempt to keep the blood from rushing out like a red river’s flow. Neither of their hands can stop the blood. He’d even taken his jacket off and pressed it there, too, and Eddie can’t stop himself from feeling guilty for ruining the jacket. It looked expensive and now it’s stained. Hopefully Richie’ll figure out how to clean it. Eddie won’t be able to lecture him about it from heaven or hell or wherever he’d be in the next couple of minutes.

“Hey, hey, hey, you’re gonna be alright. Okay, Eds?” Richie says frantically, looking back and forth between Eddie and the group. “We’re gonna get you out of here and everything will be okay, I promise,”

Eddie nods, not wanting to waste any of the few breaths he has left encased in his lungs. He never really had asthma. Richie told him so. His lungs just have trouble sometimes.

“I’m not going to leave you here, okay?” Richie continues, his worried eyes pour into Eddie’s, tears pooling in the corners. Eddie really doesn’t want the last thing he sees in this life to be his best friend crying. “I won’t. No matter what. I’ll get you out and we’ll get you to a hospital and you’ll be okay. Okay?”

“Rich–“

“Just say okay, man, I need you to fucking agree with me. I need you to know that you’re going to be okay, Eds.”

“Richi–“

“Please. For me.”

Richie’s practically begging at this point and Eddie can’t stand it. He wants to say it, he wants to say _everything _and Richie isn’t giving him the chance to.

“Richie, I–” Eddie gets his full name out with a harsh breath, one that burns his insides and makes him think that it’s his last. He prays that it isn’t.

“What?”

Richie’s still looking at him with those eyes and Eddie forgets everything he had to say in the first place, or more so he decides in a split second that it’s fucking stupid to confess teenage love to someone seconds before you’re about to die. So, Eddie shuts his stupid fucking mouth and shakes his head.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Eddie watches as Richie smiles, feels his gentle hand run through his hair (a promise of returning), before Richie runs off to join the group in their attack. A weak smile ghosts his lips, seeing him go off, hearing him, although distantly, yell at the stupid fucking clown. Something rips over near the center of the cave. Oh, it’s the arm he’d been punctured with. Eddie manages a rough laugh, one that rattles his chest and rips a breath away. He’s in love with that fucking idiot, he really is.

Eddie blacks out seconds later. Richie will never know.

** _one of us is crying. one of us is lying. in his lonely bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing he was somewhere else instead. one of us is lonely. one of us is only waiting for a call. sorry for himself, feeling stupid, feeling small. wishing he had never left at all._ **

** Somewhere - 2016**

There’s an annoying beeping sound coming from somewhere. To the left, maybe? No, from the right. It’s hard to tell. His head is hazy, stuffed with fat rain clouds. They weigh down his thought process. He can’t open his eyes. Where the fuck is he? Is this heaven? No, that doesn’t exist, fuck you Sonia Kaspbrak. He’s not in heaven because it’s not fucking real, just like everything else she ever said to him.

He’s alive.

If he can breathe, even a tiny bit, if he can think and if he can hear things, then he’s alive. Somehow, Eddie’s still alive.

_Oh, hell yeah, fuck you stupid fucking clown. I made it out._

If Eddie had the strength, he’d smile, but he can’t, so he leaves his mind to conjure up the image of a smile instead. His body feels extremely heavy, like a semi-truck made of thick bandages is parked on his chest, holding him down and preventing him from getting up. It also feels a lot like his mother’s leash. He’ll try to get up later, perhaps, if the weight ever lifts. He fears that it never will.

For now, though, he chooses to fall back into the warm arms of sleep. The beeping sound fades out to the background, blending with the white noise in his head. And before completely passing out, Eddie thinks he can hear the whisper of someone shuffling into the room.

“We can’t give you any definite answer as to when he’ll wake up, sir.”

That’s a voice Eddie can’t recognize. It’s pristine and put-together, definitely some older lady, considering the gentle sternness woven in her tone.

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t give a definite answer? Don’t doctors know everything when it comes to this shit?”

And that’s a voice he definitely fucking knows. Richie Tozier in full irritation, harsh throated with words of hellfire. He’s always been really scary when genuinely pissed off, which was a rare sight to see, or hear, in this case. Nonetheless, he’s here with Eddie, wherever here is, and is clearly desperate for information. Eddie’s heart feels a bit lighter knowing that he’s not alone. If Richie’s with him, then things will be okay. After all, he promised.

Eddie hears the ruffling of clothes, which he assumes to be a shrug from the stranger, and then shoes patting across a floor. A door opens and closes after that. He hates not being able to see it all. Then it’s Richie’s frustrated sigh from his side, something he wishes he didn’t recognize. Hearing everything with no pictures, no actions to tie into it all makes things difficult for Eddie. He wants to open his eyes, but there are tiny dumbbells sitting on his eyelids. He’s not ready yet, apparently.

“Wake the fuck up before I tear down this entire hospital, Spaghetti,” Richie grumbles. Eddie hears him shift in a seat. It’s to the right, he can designate where things are now. That must mean he’s getting better, albeit slowly.

Silence is terrifying, even more so than usual when you’re forced to rely on sound alone, and Richie doesn’t say anything after that. Eddie wishes he’d open his mouth again, tell some of his badly ghostwritten jokes, something, _anything_ to fill the air, to make Eddie feel like he isn’t wrapped up in nothingness. He doesn’t care if it’s Richie making mom jokes about his late mother, or if they’re stupid things pulled from his shows, cringe-worthy jokes that sound foreign, like they had from the television that one night. Eddie just wants to hear him.

Richie keeps his mouth shut. Eddie falls back asleep.

Eddie’s eyes snap open and a deep breath rakes through his lungs, as if the air had tiny hands and were clawing through his chest. He’d been having a nightmare, but it wasn’t anything of fiction. Eddie had been watching his death play over and over again in his mind, an unbreakable movie reel and he was strapped down to a recliner in the theater. He’d felt the claw rip through his torso, tear through his organs, blood weeping from the open hole in his chest, all too much like the tears from Richie’s eyes.

But now he’s awake.

Wide awake.

The hospital walls are a clean white, smoothly painted with no chips on their surface. For some reason, it’s reassuring that they’re so clean, makes Eddie think that the hospital knows what they’re doing. It’s what he needs right now. White lights glare down on him like sunrays without an ozone layer of protection, but instead of producing heat, they’re cold. Ice cold. Fuck, he’s always hated how cold hospitals are, even if it’s to kill off bacteria or keep them out or whatever, he just fucking hates it. The room he’d been in when he had broken his arm was just as freezing as the one, he’s in now and the little baby blue blankets splayed over him provide no warmth. He looks to his right, a small wooden table with vases of flowers. Balloons sit on the floor by the wide window, blinds shut. There’s an armchair in the back-right corner and it looks like something from his mother’s house, dark green and wearing at the edges. Her old recliner. He doesn’t want to look at it any longer.

Eddie turns his head toward the left then and almost flinches at the sight of Richie sitting uncomfortably in a plastic chair with cheap cushioning. His head leaning back against the wall and his mouth hangs wide open. He’s snoring. Loudly, too. His arms cross over his chest and his legs splay out awkwardly towards the floor.

_Holy fuck, how can someone sleep like that?_

Eddie realizes that this isn’t just someone though and that this is Richie, the guy who murders supernatural, psychotic clowns with his bare hands, the guy who tells horrible fucking jokes that piss Eddie off but make him snort in the back of his head. His best friend.

Eddie finally has the strength to smile.

He opens his mouth to say something, to call out Richie’s name in hopes to wake him up, but the only thing that falls from his lips is a hoarse whisper of nothing. Fuck, he has enough energy to smile but not to talk, and holy shit he wants to talk. Eddie has so many questions, has had them since he woke up the first time, so many things to say and find out about; like how the fuck everything went down, how they got him out of there alive, what surgeries did he have, how much is everything going to cost, is everyone else okay, where is everyone else, why is Richie here and not gone with the rest of them? He needs to know these things, needs to talk to a nurse, too, and get in contact with his insurance and– shit, he has to somehow get in touch with Myra.

Fuck.

God, there are even _more_ things to tell Myra. Why the hell did he have to go and get himself nearly killed so far away from New York? His wife was probably worried out of her fucking mind by now, has probably bombarded his phone with hundreds of calls and texts. His shoulders move in a sigh at the thought. Being asleep was better than having to face all of this, but there’s going back now.

_Maybe I can sit up_, Eddie thinks, and he decides to at least try.

It takes a lot of will to get himself up on his forearms, elbows digging into the thin hospital mattress. This injury really isn’t something small, it can’t be, not with his torso practically on fire, scorching with a spreading pain. Fuck, it hurts a lot, but Eddie refuses to stop. He’s going to sit up on his own, with no help or medication or anything. He fought a fucking clown. He can definitely sit up.

The rude truth is that he can’t, and Eddie falls back against the mattress with a faint grunt; one that makes Richie jump awake in his seat. Eddie sees him from the corner of his eyes.

“Holy fucking shit! Eds! Eds, you’re awake? Are you seriously awake right?” Richie fumbles out of the plastic chair, dropping to his knees beside the hospital bed, hands pressed to the sheets.

Eddie thinks he might hear tears in the back of Richie’s throat. He really hopes Richie doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t want to try to talk again, aware that if he fails, it’ll just piss him off, so Eddie nods instead and turns his gaze towards Richie.

“Oh my god– oh my fucking _god_. I told you you’d be okay, man, I fucking– I dragged you out of there myself! The others, they tried to stop me, they told me that you were dead and that there was no point in getting your body out of that fucking hellhole, but I knew you were still alive, I–I knew it and now you’re awake,” Richie rambles with a smile coated in disbelief, as though this moment is nothing more than some sick dream, and tears start to roll down his cheeks. There goes Eddie’s hopes of not seeing Richie cry. At least this time it’s out of happiness instead of fear.

“Can you talk?”

Eddie shakes his head.

“Okay– shit, well… Do you want me to call a nurse?”

He nods.

Richie leans over and pushes a button, signaling the nurse or so Eddie assumed, before settling back to staring at Eddie.

“We killed it this time, Eds. For real.”

Eddie smiles. He knows they did.

“The others have already gone back home, they all had shit to do or whatever, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were okay, at least, I mean, I’ll probably head back home soon now that you’re awake, but I think I’ll wait until you’re cleared and out of this place. Is that okay?”

Eddie nods.

“Okay.” Richie smiles. “Cool.”

“Oh, and uh,” he adds. “We didn’t call your wife because we didn’t know her number and couldn’t get into your phone but holy shit, dude, she’s called you like a million fucking times.”

Eddie leans his head back against the pillows, shoulders moving in a sigh.

“A lot like good ol’ Mama Kaspbrak, huh?”

Eddie shoots a glare at Richie, who just laughs.

“Sorry, I’ll cut it out, for now, only ‘cause you nearly fucking died. Once you’re back on your feet though, I’m letting the jokes loose.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

The nurse hurries in moments after and shoos Richie out, tells him that he’ll be allowed back in after they’ve checked Eddie’s conditions. He leaves with a handful of mumbles spilling out across the floor and Eddie can’t help but smile.

Fuck, he loves that guy. And he has to talk to his wife.

“So, you’re going to head back to California?” Eddie asks. They’re sitting outside of the hospital on one of the green metal benches alongside the building, heading towards the front door. Pots of flowers are on both sides of the bench, pink camellias, and purple hydrangeas.

Three weeks have passed since Eddie first woke up. Apparently, he’s fine enough now to head back to New York, by car, but should see his doctor as soon as he gets home, which he plans on doing immediately, well, immediately after talking to Myra. Unsaid things between the two need to come to light and Eddie is dead set on explaining everything, _everything_, to her the second he’s back in New York.

“Yeah. I gotta patch some things up with my manager. He was pretty pissed about me staying here until you could check out. Hopefully, I still have a job.”

“I’d rather you be fired than go back to telling those stupid fucking jokes,” Eddie says, nudging Richie’s shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off.” Richie grins. “I already told him I’m writing my own shit from now on, none of his Hollywood comedy or whatever it is. I plan on giving the people backwoods Derry comedy, y’know, about clowns and all.”

Eddie laughs and shakes his head.

“Nobody’s going to believe you, fucking idiot.”

His cab comes minutes later, and Eddie finds himself wanting to stay. He doesn’t know why, because Derry is a fucking shithole full of childhood trauma and horrors, but still, he feels reluctant to go. Eddie wonders if Richie feels the same way, if he wants to tell the cabs to forget all about it and stay another night or two. They can go to all the old spots, maybe even the quarry and take a dip in the water, just the two of them. They can get ice cream and go see a movie and go to the arcade and play Street Fighter like they’re kids again. Except they aren’t kids anymore. They’re forty and have lives to pick back up on.

“The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to leave,” Richie says, standing up. He wipes his palms on the front of his jeans.

Eddie opens his mouth to snap back something along the lines of _don’t get fucking poetic on me now like that, Tozier_, but Richie cuts him off before he can even get a word out.

“Bev cried in my arms for a good twenty before leaving. It makes it worse to linger. Just go, Eddie.”

Richie smiles at him and Eddie nods then pushes himself up off the bend.

Yeah, he’ll go. He’ll definitely go, but first, Eddie turns to his long-lost best friend, secret love, whatever Richie is to him, and pulls him into the tightest hug he can manage, arms winding around his neck. His wound thumps in pain beneath the bandages covering his chest, but Eddie can’t care less about the pain. He needs to hug Richie at least once before high school graduation happens all over again and they’re both too far apart to find each other for a second time.

Richie’s arms wrap around Eddie’s waist carefully, treading lightly to prevent from fucking with his injury. Eddie hears Richie sniffle and he won’t admit this later on, but he can feel the tears threatening his eyes, too.

“I love you, dude,” Richie whispers, face pressed to the curve of his shoulder.

“I love you, too.” Years ago, Eddie would’ve gagged at the thought of them acting like this, let alone acting like this in public. He would’ve been overwhelmed with fear of being seen by Bowers or anybody else in Derry and getting yelled at, slurs hitting their faces like stinging snowballs in late January. He would’ve told himself it meant nothing, that those words meant nothing, and that hugging Richie meant nothing, and even now it probably doesn’t mean all that Eddie wishes it to mean, but it’s still something. It’s enough

“Call me or text me sometime, seriously,” Richie says. He’s the first to pull away. Eddie watches as he glances over at the cab driver, probably checking to make sure the guy isn’t getting impatient.

“I will,” Eddie promises with a nod.

“And get home safe.”

“Of course. Stop worrying so much, Rich. It’s weird.”

It’s not weird, it’s reassuring, but Eddie won’t tell him that to his face.

Richie laughs and runs a hand through his hair.

“I can’t believe we really made it out of there for a second time,” he says.

“Me either. It… It all feels so surreal, but I’m glad it’s okay now. I’m glad you’re- we’re all okay.”

“Yeah.”

“I better get going,” Eddie says, “before I’m charged even more. A cab drive from Maine to New York isn’t that cheap.”

Richie nods. “Bye then, Eds.”

“Bye, Rich.”

He walks over to the cab, throws the small duffle bag into the trunk, (the copious amounts of luggage had already been sent back to New York without his permission. Bev had set it up to keep the lady at the townhouse from pestering them about it) and slams it shut. Before getting into the backseat, though, he turns back towards Richie and gives him a kind smile.

“Thanks again. For saving my life and all.”

Richie waves in response.

Eddie gets in the cab, and then he’s off to New York, to Myra.

** _i was in your arms, thinking i belonged there. i figured it made sense, building me a fence. building me a home, thinking i’d be strong there. but i was a fool, playing by the rules. the gods may throw the dice, their minds as cold as ice. and someone way down here loses someone dear. the winner takes it all, the loser has to fall. it’s simple and it’s plain. why should i complain?_ **

** **

“You come back home to me after being in Maine for _weeks _with little to no calls and the first thing you say is that you want a _divorce_?” Myra’s shrieking like she usually is whenever Eddie says anything for himself, something out of his own heart. “Why?!”

“Because I remembered a lot of things after going home,” Eddie answers truthfully, although leaving out the rough truth behind his words. He can’t tell all the gritty details, the real reason why he wants to leave her. It’s not easy to tell your wife that you’re in love with your childhood best friend who just so happens to be a guy, and Eddie thinks it best to spare her of that, for both his sake and her own.

“You almost die and that makes you realize that you want to leave me? That’s not right, honey, you’re not right. You’re still injured. All the medication is getting to your head, that’s all. Right, Eddie-bear? It’s just the medication, and after you lay down and get some rest you’ll come to your senses and realize that you’re best here, with me.”

Eddie wants to fight down the anger riling up through his veins, blood pumping fiercely at Myra’s attempts to make Eddie seem out of mind. She’s treating him like a fucking kid, and he isn’t one. He’s not a kid and she’s not his mother and there’s nothing that she can say that’ll keep him from leaving her. Not anymore, not after everything he’s been through.

“No, Myra! Fuck, I’m– We’re getting a divorce and that’s final. Do you understand?” Eddie yells, throat going raw with honesty.

He watches as she tears up and begins to sob overdramatically; a mirror of Sonia when Eddie tried to go out of state for college. His mother had wailed her heart out, hand clutching her chest in shock and disbelief that her baby boy wanted to leave her. It disgusts Eddie then, seeing that reflection face to face, realizing it in all its truth for the first time. Eddie stayed home for college back then, because he was eighteen and stupid and tied tight to a chain. Now he’s forty and breaking that chain with his bare hands. Eddie’s done with this and he’s done with her.

Myra follows him throughout their house as he packs his things. Falls to the ground in their bedroom, on her knees, begging for him to stay, telling him that he’s going to get sick without her by his side. She claws at his pants legs, trying to physically keep him from going throughout the room to gather his clothes, and Eddie shakes her off, moving on with his business. She isn’t going to hold him back. That was final.

Bags are packed and thrown onto the couch in the living room within thirty minutes. Some things, most of them pertinent to New York, Eddie decides to leave behind. He doesn’t want any remnants of his life here following him to where he goes next, wherever that might be. He hasn’t thought this through at all, outside of leaving Myra. Maybe Bill will let him crash at his place for a bit, at least until he can get on his feet and find a job somewhere.

“You look like my fucking mother, Myra. It’s sad.”

Eddie drags his bags out of the house and slams the door shut, leaving his soon to be ex-wife on the floor of the foyer, crying her eyes out.

-

Richie receives a call three weeks later from Bill.

“Hey man. Eddie’s getting a divorce.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I figured you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, uh, I– why isn’t he telling me himself?”

“He wants to wait until they’re officially split. Should be over in a couple of weeks, he says. Myra isn’t being as clingy about it as he expected her to be when he left.”

“He’s not staying in New York?”

“Nah, he’s at my place for the time being. I’m thinking of suggesting him to run in your direction though.”

Richie scoffs, “Shut up, Bill.”

“I’m serious. You need to confront this. At least tell him now that it’s over between the two of them.”

Richie says nothing for a bit, sighs, and then nods even though Bill can’t see him through a phone speaker.

“Okay.”

-

Finalizing a divorce is easier than Eddie anticipated. He’s thankful that Myra had been so compliant during the official process. She most likely realized that he’d been serious about the entire ordeal, which was helpful throughout it all. After signing one more document, it’d be over, and Eddie would be free for once in his life. Free to do whatever he wants, be with who he truly wants to be with. The last part, at least, is in theory. Nonetheless, it’s an amazing feeling.

He’s never been given the chance to feel like this before. It’s all new and exciting and shockingly real. The last of the papers had been signed and he was finally a single man again. And holy fucking hell, it’s the best thing he’s ever experienced. Bill takes him out to a bar that night, buys him as many drinks as he wants and they spend hours laughing, reminiscing, and cracking jokes at each other. Eddie tells Bill his books are finally getting better and that his older ones were shit. Bill tells Eddie that he’s proud of him for finally breaking out of the chokehold he’d been kept in all his life. Eddie buys Bill one drink.

What’s even more shocking though, is two weeks later when Eddie’s phone buzzes in his front pocket unexpectedly while he’s standing on Bill’s porch one morning, keys in his hand, forehead sweating from his early run. None of the jobs he’d applied to should be calling this early, he’d only submitted his applications a couple of days ago and it usually takes weeks for employers to get back. Eddie lets the buzzing continue until it stops. It was most likely a wrong number anyway.

At least he thinks so until the damned phone starts ringing again. Eddie fumbles, drops his keys, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Hopefully, none of the neighbors are out at 6:45 in the fucking morning to see him move like an awkward teenager.

Richie Tozier’s name stares at him from the screen, white bolded text that sends his heart into a frenzy. Why the fuck is Richie calling him? Eddie hesitates a bit before answering.

“Hey, Rich, what’s up?” he says, pressing the phone against his ear with his shoulder while he leans down to pick up the dropped keys.

Silence greets him.

“You there?”

Nothing. Maybe it’s just an accident and Richie doesn’t even know he’s called Eddie.

“Richie?”

A bit of static comes through the speaker then, and it sounds like it’s coming from an old tape player. Then, after some more static, Eddie can make out hints of music.

_Oh fuck._

_Oh, what the fuck._

“If you change your mind, I’m the first in line. Honey, I’m still free, take a chance on me. If you need, let me know, gonna be around. If you’ve got no place to go when you’re feeling down.”

Richie’s screaming along with the song and Eddie can feel tears bubbling up at the ends of his eyes. This fucking idiot.

“If you’re all alone, when the pretty birds have flown, honey, I’m still free–!”

“Richie, what the fuck are you doing?”

“–Take a chance on me! Gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie. If you put me to the test, if you let me try.”

“Stop fucking around, man!”

“When I dream, I’m alone with you, it’s magic. You want me to leave it there, afraid of a love affair, but I think you know that I can’t let go!”

“You sound like you’re sixteen again, moron!”

“Oh, you can take your time, baby, I’m in no hurry! Know I’m gonna get you, you don’t wanna hurt me. Baby don’t worry, I ain’t gonna let you.”

“Stop it, Rich, really! This isn’t funny!”

Eddie finds himself getting frustrated at the man. This is clearly some prank.

“Let me tell you now! My love is strong enough, to last when things are rough, it’s magic. You say that I waste my time, but I can’t get you off my mind, no, I can’t let you go–”

“Fuck face–“

“’ Cause I love you so.”

“Shut the fuck up. Seriously, Richie! What kind of joke is this?”

“Honey, I’m still free _andhavebeenforforever_ take a chance on me!”

A laugh pours from Eddie’s lips at the awkward and jumbled addition to the song. He shuts his mouth quickly. He won’t give Richie the satisfaction of hearing his laughter.

“Baby, can’t you see, gotta put me to the test–“

“Alright! Rich, alright, I get it!”

The volume dims and Richie’s laughing through the phone.

“Heard you got a divorce, dude,” he says over the music. Richie pauses. “You okay?”

“Shut up. It wasn’t anything other than a minor fucking headache.”

“Did you take Excedrin or placebos for it?”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Eddie says, warningly. “Now why the fuck are you calling me just to blast ABBA?”

“Remember that time when we were teenagers and danced around my room to this song?” he asks.

“Yeah. Your hands were sweaty as fuck. I was sure I was going to get pimples all over my hands from them. Why?”

“I’m in love with you.”

Eddie’s phone nearly slips out of his hand and he stumbles on Bill’s porch. None of the planks are lifted, they’re all flat and even. No reason for him to trip. _I’m in love with you_. This is a joke; it has to be a pointless fucking joke that Richie thought would be hilarious. It’s to tantalize him about his divorce, (Bill must’ve told him when they’d gone out for drinks), make him think that Richie actually has feelings for him and then remind him how he’s disgustingly single. Richie loves taunting him, has always enjoyed pulling Eddie’s leg and making fun of him when things went wrong in his life. That’s just who Richie is and right now was no different.

“That’s not funny,” Eddie says, seriousness weaving through his tone.

“I know it’s not,” Richie responds. “’ Cause it’s not a joke.”

“Oh, fuck off, Richie. Seriously. I get a fucking divorce and you think the best thing to do is fucking call me out of nowhere, play some stupid fucking song from that _one_ single time we danced, and then tell me you’re in love with me? It’s fucking sick!” Eddie doesn’t mean to be so harsh with him, cold and unforgiving with his words, but he refuses to be played like this. He’s loved Richie for years and won’t be treated like this, as if it’s a joke.

Richie sighs across the line and Eddie can picture him pushing his glasses up his nose before running a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends.

“I’m not fucking with you, Eddie,” he says. “I’m in love with you and I thought it’d be fun to tell you through this fucking song, ‘cause hey, now that you’re single you can take a chance on me or whatever, but now I can see that it could, and probably did, come off really fucking childish and I’m sorry for making this seem like a joke, but it’s not Eddie. I’m in love with you. Seriously.”

Eddie’s jaw drops.

There’s no fucking way this is happening right now.

Absolutely no fucking way.

Of course, Richie would think it’d be cute or whatever to confess like that, and of course, Eddie’s too stupid and too used to being joked around with to take it seriously.

They work like that, in some weird tandem of understanding each other but falling blind eye to those understandings until the last second.

“You’re in love with me?” he asks, quiet.

“Yeah– fuck, Eds. I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time now, since we were young, honestly, but I was… I was scared, y’know? Derry really wasn’t the best place to be in love with your best friend, ‘specially not when your best friend’s a dude.”

“Me too,” Eddie responds before even thinking it through. He keeps going before Richie can cut him off, make him think too much and hold back his words.

“I had this crush on you when we were younger, it probably started when we were fourteen? Fifteen? I can’t really remember, but I _can_ remember that night, blasting ABBA and dancing around your room and I remember your stupid sweaty hands in mine and never wanting to pull away from them. I would– I would look at you a lot and I was always worried that you, or anyone, would catch me staring and call me out about it and start… start saying the shit they would say back then.”

“So you’re–“

“Gay? Yeah.”

Eddie can feel Richie smile into his phone. “Me too.”

“We really shouldn’t be doing this over the phone,” Eddie says.

“Probably not. A bad idea on my part.”

“No, it was a good idea, just stupid.”

“I think calling it stupid means it isn’t good, Eds, my love,” Richie teases. That stupid old fucking nickname, he hasn’t heard it in years. It makes his cheeks flush.

“Still. Thinking about it now, it was really cute. Definitely something you’d do.”

“Was it cute before or after you yelled at me?” Richie pokes at him. If he was there, Richie would probably have nudged his shoulder and Eddie would’ve shoved him away.

“Before,” he says.

“Like I thought. A bad idea.”

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.”

“Don’t be,” Richie says. “You had all right to be upset.”

“So.” Eddie starts.

“So.” Richie finishes.

“What?”

Richie laughs. “I really want to fucking see you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles, turning the keys over in his hand. His legs beg him to sit down, still pumping with post-run pain, but he can’t bring himself to go inside yet. “I want to see you too.”

“I can try to convince my manager or something, although I might get a lecture out of it.”

“I think I’m worth a lecture, Rich.”

“I think you’re worth a lot more, Eds.”

“You’ll talk to him, then?” Eddie asks, heart starting to grow hopeful at the thought of being in Richie’s presence, face to face, in full honesty at last.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Richie answers.

He goes on, “I bet Bill’s going to be psyched about this once I tell him I finally confessed to you. He might even write a book about us, Eds. That’d be sick, huh?”

“Did… Did he know?” Eddie asks, slightly worried the fact that Bill might’ve known all this time. If Bill knows, if he’s known for a long time, he might have thoughts about them, about their relationship, thoughts molded by the hands of Derry parents and pastors. He knows Bill isn’t a bad guy, Eddie knows that for a fact, because Bill let him move in with him after New York. He’s not a bad guy, but he still might think bad things about him, and that was terrifying.

“He’s known for years,” Richie answers calmly as if it means nothing at all. “I told him and Stan when we were kids. They always told me to just fucking go for it and ignore the town, but that wasn’t really possible. I’m pretty sure Stan’s rolling over in his grave right now considering I finally got the balls to say something to you.”

The joke bites Eddie in the heart and he’s sure that it’s struck Richie too, but he lets it settle there without a word. Bill knows. Stan knew. They knew all this time and didn’t say a thing about it. Eddie really fucking loves his friends. He’ll look up where Stanley’s buried later, will make a note to get the best fucking bouquet of flowers from Atlanta and cover his grave with them. Maybe he’ll get a couple of plastic birds too. Anything Stan would’ve liked. And he’ll buy Bill a couple of drinks, too.

“They never said anything to me, or anyone, I think.”

“Of course, they didn’t, Eds. They’re our best friends. They never would’ve put us in danger like that.”

“That’s nice of them, really,” Eddie says.

“I never told anyone,” he adds before Richie can respond. “I was always scared that if I told anyone, they’d tell the group or the entire school or my fucking mom, so I just kept my mouth shut. It sucked, but I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I get it,” Richie says, sadness hinting in the back of his words. “It was rough, but things are different now. Not perfect, but different enough that it’ll be _okay_. We’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. We will.”

Eddie hears Richie curse, sounds of fumbling spilling through the speaker and it makes him laugh.

“Everything okay over there?”

“Fucking manager’s calling,” Richie grumbles. “Might as well break his heart now.”

“Don’t hurt him too much,” Eddie jokes.

“I’ll try not to,” he says. “I’ll call you later tonight though, okay?”

Eddie smiles. “Okay.”

A goodbye hangs in the phone lines spanning across hundreds of miles. Neither of them wants to say it first.

“I love you, Rich, a lot.”

It’s better than a goodbye or an I’ll talk to you later.

“Come off of it, Eds, don’t be such a sap. We haven’t even gone on a date yet and you’re telling me you love me? A little fast for my taste. At least wine and dine me first.”

“Fuck off.”

“I really gotta go now, though, before he accuses me of ignoring his calls.”

“Don’t get fired, I expect you to pay for all of our dinners until I’m officially employed.”

“No promises– and fuck, I’m getting romantically involved with a jobless man? That’s not very promising, Kaspbrak.”

Eddie shakes his head and finally makes his way up to Bill’s door. He pushes the key into the handle and turns the knob, stepping inside. He throws the keys on the coffee table in the living room.

“Bye, Rich.”

“Bye, Eds.”

** _i used to think i was sensible, it makes the truth even more incomprehensible. ‘cause everything is new, and everything is you, and all i’ve learned has overturned._ **

** _what can i do?_ **

** _don’t go wasting your emotion._ **

** _lay all your love on me._ **


End file.
